


planted quiet in the night

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (after the scene in anticipation of future play), Belts, Come Eating, D/s, Established Relationship, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, Scratching, Shoe Kissing, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7407625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know this is for your own good," Harold says, and sighs.</p><p>John trembles. "I do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	planted quiet in the night

"Get on your knees," Harold says. John can read absolutely nothing in his voice.

He gets. Of course he does. His knees hit the floor and his heart hits his ribs, its rhythm spasming once then evening again into something lower, calmer. John doesn't need to have situational awareness, now. Harold will make sure John understands, and obeys.

The world narrows down into Harold's fingers, undoing his belt buckle. John feels a prickle of fear, a rush of excitement.

The belt slides back. Harold pulls the end out of the buckle, prong sliding out of the first hole: Harold buys clothes that fit precisely. Halfway through pulling the belt out of its perch on the loops of Harold's pants, Harold pauses, and presents the stretched length of the belt to John.

That's plain enough. John bows his head and kisses it, taking in the smell of good leather.

Next, Harold angles his grasp so that his knuckles are right next to John's mouth. John kisses those, too.

"You know this is for your own good," Harold says, and sighs.

John trembles. "I do."

The few minutes waiting for Harold to take position behind him are the worst: there's nothing to ground John but his own desperate conviction that Harold is there. Harold won't leave him.

Then he hears the belt whip down. In the milliseconds before it hits, his mind clears with the anticipation of pain.

The belt strikes with a pure burst of sensation, a shock to the system, leaving heat in its wake. Harold doesn't start soft, but he does warm John up, ramping the pain higher, a feeling John can't ignore.

Soon enough the impact levels from sweet to actually painful, but the lingering effect of those first strokes stays with John. Every hit is delivered with care and precision.

Of course, it's Harold. Harold can't help but be careful and precise, especially when John is kneeling for him.

Harold has to take a break eventually. When he does, he fits the belt between John's teeth (John holds it, careful not to leave tooth marks), then runs his fingernails over the tracks the belt left on John's upper back.

John lets out a few desperate whines, which are muffled by the belt. Harold likes it when he makes noise.

Harold makes a considering sound. "I'm going to sit down on the couch. Join me, please."

He doesn't tell John to crawl there on hands and knees, but John does anyway. It feels better than getting to his feet.

Once there, Harold puts his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him upwards and closer, so that John has his back to Harold, bracing himself on the couch and bent backwards; he closes his eyes when he feels Harold's mouth on his shoulder blades.

"Oh," John says, shaky, when Harold bites down hard on the abused skin, and, "oh," again, when Harold reaches around to play with John's half-hard cock.

Harold takes his sweet time bringing John off. By the time John comes, his thighs are shaking from holding himself up, his back feels red-hot with belt marks and teeth marks.

"You can get back on your knees," Harold says, once the last of the aftershocks is past, "and face me."

John does. His racing heart is slowing down, a deep calm sinking over him.

Harold holds out his hand, dirty with John's come. John licks it clean, sucking Harold's fingers into his mouth until Harold's eyes go half lidded. "Good," Harold says, and John shivers.

"May I," John says, his voice coming out a croaky mess.

Harold smiles. "You may." He undoes his pants buttons, letting John get at his underwear-covered cock.

John doesn't try getting fancy. He nuzzles Harold's cock out of his boxers and takes it into his mouth, hungry for Harold's taste, the warmth of him on John's tongue. He's artless, greedy, swallowing Harold down.

Harold traces his fingers down John's nape, making him quiver, and scratches him again from the shoulders down. John moans helplessly, and Harold's cock twitches and spills in his mouth.

John has to let go of Harold's cock sooner than he'd like. It's gone soft, and Harold is starting to fidget, so John releases it, lays a parting kiss on the head. He rests his face against Harold's stomach and lets himself be for a few moments.

When Harold's voice comes, it's distant: both because John isn't quite back to himself yet and because Harold is thinking. "Did you want me to keep hitting you?"

"Yes," John says, honest. 

"Mm." Harold's hand goes down John's back, gently tracing the marks he'd left there. John shudders. "If I scratched you now, what would happen?"

John's mouth is dry. "Try and see." 

The pressure of fingernails makes John hiss. It's just pain, now, not the transcendent experience it was before. There's still the knowledge that this is doing something for Harold - satisfying his curiosity, maybe, or just letting him know John is his, to do with as he wills.

That thought makes John's spent cock pulse weakly, and he shudders again.

Harold's hands come up to John's shoulders, tugging him up. "Come here," Harold says, and John climbs up to perch above Harold's lap, careful not to rest too much weigh on Harold's legs. Harold turns his face and kisses him, long and impossibly sweet.

John's back stings. "Are you okay?" he asks Harold.

Harold's mouth twitches, but he says, "I'm fine. It helps that you show enthusiasm so well." He strokes John's face. "Telling you it's for your own good is beneficial, too." He grimaces. "Although I should remember how easily misused that phrase is."

He doesn't want Harold self-recriminating. He wants Harold to feel good, the desire so overwhelming it leaves room for nothing else inside John, not even the vicious little voices that whisper he doesn't deserve any of this. He kisses Harold again, until he can't breathe, until there's nothing on his mind but Harold, Harold's hands, Harold's joy.

"You're so good to me," John finds himself whispering once they part, hiding his face in Harold's neck.

"You have an interesting definition of _good_ ," Harold says dryly. "Perhaps I should ask you to kiss my shoes next time and see how you feel then."

The image takes John by surprise, by storm: his entire body shakes. "Please," he says, suddenly breathless with the desire to do just that.

Harold's arms tighten around him. "Oh, John," Harold says, voice soft and helpless. "Of course you may," and John descends to lie on the floor, kissing each of Harold's shoes carefully, then resting his cheek on top of the right one. He closes his eyes.

The room is silent, cool air a light sting against John's back. The pattern of Harold's Oxfords is probably going to get indented in his cheeks: for a wild moment, John imagines getting a tattoo. Not on his face, somewhere hidden, some subtle message spelling out who he belongs to.


End file.
